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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24275566">An ode to Valdo Marx</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte'>Beginte</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Kiss, Geralt is a gold medallist in jumping to conclusions, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstanding, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, but also some plot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:35:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,699</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24275566</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Something sour and ugly pulls inside Geralt, makes him want to tug Jaskier away, bundle him up onto Roach and leave right this minute, leave Valdo Marx and his ambiguous offers behind. </i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or: Geralt somehow gets it into his head that Jaskier might actually be in love with Valdo Marx. Fortunately, Jaskier intervenes just in time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>120</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1475</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>An ode to Valdo Marx</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt has never given much thought to seasons.</p>
<p>They are what they are: winters are cold and lean, with not much food and even less coin, and he spends most of them in Kaer Morhen, where he can rest and be sure of getting plenty to eat, his own bed, and firewood for the hearth. Springs start in the foothills, and he leads Roach down the mountains to meet them; rivers thaw, the land becomes green again, and there’s a contract in almost every village as monsters stir from winter sleep. Summers are hot, with long days and more coin as harvests begin, and autumns bring a crisp sense of change in the air.</p>
<p>Rinse, repeat. Nothing to think about. Geralt continues walking the Path alone (that is, alone with Roach) as seasons change around him and years blur one into another.</p>
<p>But then an annoying, mouthy bard with bread in his pants strummed his lute and strolled into Geralt’s life and forgot to leave. And now Geralt has a favourite season. It’s summer, because sometimes he and Jaskier don’t meet until late into spring or part early still in autumn, but summer is always spent entirely together.</p>
<p>(If Eskel knew, he would laugh his poxy arse off. Which is why Eskel will never know.)</p>
<p>And now it’s summer again -- the sky is a vibrant blue, there’s a breeze just cool enough to take the edge off the heat, Roach had grazed on some sweet grass in the morning, and Jaskier is walking beside him, plucking at his lute strings and passing the time by composing a new song. It’s about Geralt, of course, and he gave his obligatory grunt about it from atop Roach's back, only to be shushed.</p>
<p>“Honestly, my dear witcher, if you didn’t want dozens of songs written about you, you should have thought better about being all <em>heroic </em>and <em>kind</em>.”</p>
<p>Personally, Geralt thinks he’s neither, but he doesn’t say anything, because Jaskier has just called him <em>his</em>, and it leaves a light and warm feeling somewhere in Geralt’s chest. It used to prickle and rub him the wrong way whenever Jaskier did that -- <em>my friend</em>, <em>my noble hero</em>, <em>my dear witcher</em> -- and Geralt can’t exactly pinpoint when that irritation mellowed out into something smooth and then became polished into something shiny that Geralt collects and tucks away whenever Jaskier drops it along the way.</p>
<p>“<em>...As the hills grew dark and tall</em>-- oh, this is good! This is good...”</p>
<p>Jaskier slings the lute over his back and trots to catch up, scrambling to open one of Roach’s saddle bags, and pulls out his journal. He flips through pages covered in writing and sketches of monsters and crossed-out stanzas (Geralt knows what a stanza is now, but he still isn’t sure how he feels about that) until he reaches the blank part.</p>
<p>“<em>...trail of... gleaming... spilling...</em> Geralt?” Jaskier pokes him in the knee with the blunt end of his charcoal pen. “Geralt, what do you think, should the blood be gleaming or spilling? It’s nightfall and the bruxae are still hungry after a hunt, and I can’t decide if it should be gleaming or spilling -- both have that nice, sticky sound to it, but--”</p>
<p>“Gleaming,” says Geralt.</p>
<p>“Yes!” Jaskier beams, already scribbling away and miraculously not tripping over a rock in the middle of his path. “My thoughts exactly! Oh, we make a great pair, you and I!”</p>
<p>“I thought you couldn’t decide which one,” grunts Geralt, because something hot and terrible is happening all over his skin just because Jaskier said <em>pair</em>.</p>
<p>“Yes, but I was leaning towards this one! Great minds, Geralt,” Jaskier says, reaching out to pat Geralt’s leg. “Great minds!”</p>
<p>His touch lingers on Geralt’s calf, warm and soft like a touch for one of his many (many) ladies (and lords), and Geralt urges Roach a little faster, because he definitely wasn’t made to be touched this way. Like he’s a fine thing to be cherished and savoured. Jaskier’s fingers trail a warm touch as they leave Geralt’s leg; when Geralt glances back over his shoulder, he can see Jaskier has slowed down to a sudden stop, looking a little lost -- probably finally tripped over another rock.</p>
<p>A moment later, Jaskier shakes himself off and trots to catch up and put his notebook away. He strums his lute, tries out bits of his new song, makes up lewd nonsense where he’s unsure what to put in yet, and Geralt’s world is familiar and reasonable again.</p>
<p>Summer is rolling lazily towards an end, which means that while the days are still warm and the skies full of sunlight, harvests are well and truly underway and people are more generous with their coin. The town looms ahead, and even from there Geralt can see carts coming in from the surrounding fields and villages -- there will be plenty of work for him taking contracts and for Jaskier singing in inns and taverns.</p>
<p>It's late afternoon and they'd eaten their breakfast early to get a head start on the day, and by the time they reach the city gates Jaskier is clinging to Roach's saddle bags and rambling about food like a man delirious in fever.</p>
<p>"Geralt, there's so much food, food everywhere, taunting me..."</p>
<p>"I could smell pheasant from that inn for half a mile now. Didn't hear me complaining."</p>
<p>Jaskier perks up.</p>
<p>"There's pheasant? Oh, lead on, White Wolf, mighty of nose!"</p>
<p>Geralt snorts, but that pheasant really has been drilling into his nostrils for a while, so he dismounts, takes Roach by the reins, and leads her and Jaskier towards the inn the smell is coming from. Their bread is also quite good -- comes from a bakery he can smell nearby -- with fragrant herbs and spices baked into it.</p>
<p>He gets Roach settled in the stables while Jaskier goes to bargain for their room. When he walks into the inn, Jaskier waves him over from a table he's already taken -- in the corner, with a good view of the room and the door, and Geralt grunts with approval. There's a loaf of bread on the table to go between them, and Jaskier is already dipping bits of it in thick, fragrant mushroom sauce and making little noises that lick warmth along Geralt's nerves and turn his thoughts to places where they shouldn't go. When a barmaid brings them ale it's a welcome distraction, but only for a moment, because the sound Jaskier makes after taking a gulp is positively orgasmic.</p>
<p>(Geralt is well and truly fucked. But in the wrong way, and that's part of the problem.)</p>
<p>Jaskier eats just enough bread to take the edge off his hunger, careful not to fill up before actual dinner, and hops up onto his chair.</p>
<p>"Ladies and gentlemen!" he calls from his podium, striking a pose with his lute. "I am Jaskier and tonight it is my pleasure to entertain you with tales of courage, monsters, and romance!"</p>
<p>A few people whoop and clap -- Jaskier is getting more and more popular around the Continent, and in larger towns people are especially likely to recognise his name and look forward to his music not just because it is music at all, but because it's the music of the famous Jaskier.</p>
<p>"And tonight!" Jaskier hops down from the chair and claps his hand on Geralt's shoulder, nudging a grunt out of him. "Tonight you are in for a treat, for I have here with me none other than Geralt of Rivia, the mighty White Wolf himself!"</p>
<p>A murmur of excited acknowledgement ripples through the room as heads turn and people stare at him. Geralt hunches in on himself and takes a long, slow pull of his ale, trying not to glare too hard at the room at large, because he and Jaskier are planning to stay in this town for at least a few days to make as much money as they can and spend most of it before they leave for the road again. Roach needs new shoes while Jaskier, coincidentally, needs new boots, and he's made at least three jokes about this so far. He also needs some spare strings for his lute, and Geralt is hoping to find a good leatherworker to mend a vicious cut in his armour (griffin talons are a bitch). If there's enough coin, he also wants to find a decent dagger to replace the one Jaskier has, which may be good in a bar fight, but it will do nothing against roadside bandits, not to mention any monster more dangerous than a common rat scurrying over Jaskier's foot in the dark.</p>
<p>Geralt knows Jaskier's White Wolf songs always fetch more coin when he's there with him (<em>"You don't have to do anything, Geralt, just sit there and be your usual brooding, scarily good-looking self."</em>), but he still hates being stared at. And yet, contrary to that, there's something hideously embarrassing inside him that purrs whenever Jaskier shows him off as his muse, and it makes Geralt simultaneously want to preen and break a chair over someone's head.</p>
<p>Because the thing is, Geralt doesn't have much. He has Roach, he has monsters to kill, and he has whatever fits in his pack. He thinks he has Jaskier, sort of. He's not sure. But he knows he really wants to. Also in ways he <em>definitely</em> doesn't have him, and which come to mind whenever Jaskier slips into a bath with a blissful sigh or catches his bottom lip between his teeth or makes <em>that sound</em> when drinking cold ale on a hot summer's day. But also when they lie on their bedrolls in a forest clearing, separated only by a patch of space or the fire, and Geralt can see the fall of Jaskier's hair, hear his soft breaths, see the slight pout that forms when he sleeps. Or when Jaskier smiles at him or reaches out to touch him with casual affection, friendly and without a trace of hesitation or fear.</p>
<p>Jaskier doesn't <em>rely</em> on him, doesn't <em>need</em> him -- for some unfathomable reason, he simply wants him around. And Geralt fucking started to like it.</p>
<p>The other thing is, Geralt doesn't have much, but nothing at all has Geralt. He doesn't belong to anywhere or anyone. Not even the other Witchers and the keep of Kaer Morhen, because while it does feel as close to a home as anything ever does, it's never meant to be a place to belong. Rest, wait out the winter, yes. But not belong.</p>
<p>Yet he’s found himself belonging to Jaskier. As his muse, yes. But also more. Being just <em>Jaskier's</em>. Belonging. It's... good. Something steady. Like a star in the sky -- something always-there, but just for him. A home he can't touch yet somehow can still feel.</p>
<p>Except he'd like to belong <em>more</em>. He already is more than Jaskier's muse -- he's his friend. But he'd like... Fuck. He'd like to be to Jaskier what Jaskier is to him.</p>
<p>This is why it's a terrible idea to get <em>involved</em>.</p>
<p>He takes another long, deep drink of his ale. The thought isn't new, but the ale still helps to smooth it out, enough to let him sit in peace while Jaskier sings about him to a godsdamn room full of people while he's <em>right there</em>.</p>
<p>It's a fairly new piece and, like most of Jaskier's pieces about Geralt, it's shamelessly exaggerated. Jaskier leaves out the squelching mud and muffled cursing as Geralt traipses through the swamp in the dead of night, and instead adds frilly nonsense about Geralt's eyes sweeping through the dark and his hair catching shine in the moonlight (it had been cloudy <em>and</em> almost new moon) as he valiantly fights off a swarm of twelve vicious harpies.</p>
<p>"Whew!" huffs Jaskier dramatically once he finishes it all off with <em>Toss a Coin</em>.</p>
<p>He drops onto the chair beside Geralt's, fanning himself before he steals Geralt's ale tankard.</p>
<p>Geralt glares at him, but Jaskier, who never once felt even a whiff of fear when looking at him, merely holds up a finger while he gulps down what sounds like the rest of Geralt's ale.</p>
<p>"Ahhh," he says, slamming the tankard back on the table and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Now, that was a fine performance, if I do say so myself -- and what a <em>lovely</em> crowd! I do like this town, Geralt-- oh, don't make that prissy face, I'll get you another ale."</p>
<p>"Hmm."</p>
<p>Jaskier does get him another ale; he also gets them both food, because they eat on the house thanks to the deal Jaskier had cut with the proprietor in exchange for his singing, and the portions are generous.</p>
<p>The crowd is thinning out, most people beginning to drift away, done with their food; those who are left carry on drinking, but their conversations drop in volume. The quiet and the drowsiness of a solid meal spreads over the inn and smoothes away an edge of Geralt's nerves that always sharpens when he's in a city, with too many people and noises and smells. Now he can sit back as well, keep only half of his guard up, and feel the contentment of a good rest beginning to reach his bones.</p>
<p>He could go upstairs -- their room is probably ready now -- and sort through his belongings or tend to his weapons, but...</p>
<p>Jaskier sighs happily, done with his food, and shifts until he's seated sideways in his chair and when he leans back he rests against Geralt's shoulder, a patch of steady pressure and warmth that will keep Geralt anchored in his spot, because there's nothing that could make him voluntarily give this up.</p>
<p>"Such a lovely and generous crowd," hums Jaskier, tying his purse back onto his belt; coins jingle inside it, plenty already after just one performance. "I think we'll do quite well here, Geralt, wouldn't you say?"</p>
<p>"Hmm."</p>
<p>"Yes, I quite agree. Well put, my good sir."</p>
<p>He takes one more sip of his ale and relaxes further back against Geralt's side, and Geralt barely manages to stop his head from tilting to rest his cheek on the top of Jaskier's head. Silky-soft hair brushes his jawline; Jaskier's contentment, dusty but sweet, wafts by Geralt's nose, and he draws out his breath, makes it go deeper, pulls it all in, savours it more than he did the ale.</p>
<p>Jaskier's done performing for the day, which means he'll sit here, soft and easy, until he's sleepy from the trek or wants a bath. Geralt likes him like this: flushed with the success of a performance, with a gentle laugh still lingering in his voice, showmanship over as he rests his throat for a while.</p>
<p>Sometimes, in moments like these, with Jaskier smiling at him like this, loose and warm and affectionate, his eyes bright with something Geralt can't quite name, Geralt thinks that maybe... maybe Jaskier does love him—</p>
<p>But that's a dangerous line of thought. The edge of a map marked <em>here be monsters</em> -- except the kind Geralt doesn't slay. Could never. Would never want to.</p>
<p>"I think our room is calling for me," says Jaskier, a drowsy softness to his voice that makes Geralt want to do something terrible like carry him to bed and wrap him in blankets.</p>
<p>"We covered a lot of ground today," he says instead, but not willing to make the first move to leave and to dislodge Jaskier from where he's warm against his side.</p>
<p>"That we did. And -- a bed, Geralt! A real bed! The soft embrace of pillows and covers at last, sweeter than any lover's after a week on the road!"</p>
<p>Geralt snorts and finishes his ale. Jaskier squirms, shifts again.</p>
<p>"And a bath. Gods, I want a bath. I <em>need</em> a bath. Be honest with me, Geralt, do I smell?" he asks, very nearly pushing himself into Geralt's lap.</p>
<p>"Yes," says Geralt. Because Jaskier does smell -- like meadow and wildflowers and dew. But he doesn't need to know that part.</p>
<p>Jaskier gapes, feigns offence and outrage. "Well, thank you very much. And just for that, I'm taking the first turn with the bath water!"</p>
<p>Geralt hums and doesn't open his mouth lest he say something stupid about being willing to share. (They have shared baths before -- beds too, when coin was low. But Geralt doesn't think he's strong enough for it today. Not with the way Jaskier had touched his leg earlier on the road and then rested, warm and trusting, against his side just now.)</p>
<hr/>
<p>They spend five days in the town, making coin and spending it, and by the time they almost have everything they need, Geralt is more than ready to leave. The town is pleasant enough, people stare but nobody spits on the ground when they see him, the food is good and the bed is soft, but Geralt always prefers the quiet of the road over the bustle of a town. Jaskier seems eager to move on as well, his eyes bright with the prospect of new sights and adventures, his voice vibrant with excitement when he talks about their upcoming departure, and it spreads something warm in Geralt's chest.</p>
<p>Jaskier's new boots were finished yesterday -- pretty, but solid, with sturdy soles made for trekking for miles on dusty roads. Geralt has taken care of a basilisk, a cockatrice, and a nest of drowners a few hours' ride away from the town, so Roach will be heading back on the road with brand new shoes, while the leatherworker assured him his armour would be ready this afternoon. What's left in their purses after four nights at the inn and some replacements to their equipment is enough to reassure him he and Jaskier will not want for much once they leave the town.</p>
<p>They're set to leave in the morning, and Geralt accompanies Jaskier to the inn where he wants to sing for the lunch crowd to make that extra bit of coin.</p>
<p>"I'm almost regretting leaving this generosity behind," says Jaskier as he tunes his lute.</p>
<p>Geralt tries not to frown as the words stir something uneasy in his mind; Jaskier looks up at him from his work on the strings and scoffs.</p>
<p>"Oh, don't give me that disapproving look, I said <em>almost</em>," he says flippantly.</p>
<p>Something inside Geralt wants to explain that it wasn't disapproval, but he doesn't know how to explain it or how to name what it was, so he settles for being silently relieved.</p>
<p>"Besides," continues Jaskier, cheerful and bright and <em>beautiful</em>, "there's nothing here that I'd stay for."</p>
<p>"Hmm," says Geralt, tries to make the words come. "That's... good."</p>
<p>Jaskier's eyes become impossibly bright.</p>
<p>"Yes?" he breathes, like something important just happened.</p>
<p>"Yes," Geralt repeats dumbly, because he wants to keep that look on Jaskier's face.</p>
<p>But what happens next is even better -- Jaskier smiles, soft and warm, a brightness settling about him. Like a dandelion in the sun.</p>
<p>When he sings, it's with as much gusto and enjoyment as he usually does, and Geralt sits in his quiet corner and listens to the vibrant warmth of his voice and thinks himself lucky that tomorrow he'll keep on travelling and Jaskier will travel alongside him. He does sigh and roll his eyes when Jaskier performs <em>Toss a Coin</em>, but most of it is for show, and he even pushes his ale tankard towards Jaskier when he's done.</p>
<p>"Oh, thank-you-thank-you, just what I need," says Jaskier after a few greedy gulps.</p>
<p>He's just about to drink more, but he freezes over the tankard, his eyes going wide and then beady as he hunches forward with a scowl.</p>
<p>"Shitting shit!" he hisses as Geralt follows his gaze to the door.</p>
<p>A man makes for their table -- clearly a bard as well, if his foppish clothes and the lute slung over his back are anything to go by. He's wearing a hat with a flamboyant feather tucked into it and the smarmiest grin Geralt has ever seen in his life.</p>
<p>"Jaskier of Lettenhove!" the man bellows, and in that second Geralt realises who this must be. "As I live and breathe!"</p>
<p>"Valdo Marx," bites out Jaskier, a jagged smirk crossing his face. "You do seem to live and breathe. I'll have to ask that old woman in the woods for my money back."</p>
<p>Valdo Marx laughs with an unpleasant edge to it that makes Geralt narrow his eyes.</p>
<p>"Oh, dear Jaskier. I heard some pheasant squawking accompanied by a lute and I thought it <em>must</em> be you!"</p>
<p>Jaskier, arms crossed over his chest, leans back with a cackle, a sharp sort of sound Geralt has never heard before, but it's not enough to make him bite back a growl.</p>
<p>"And this must be your famous White Wolf," Marx says, and Geralt hates him for being the first person to call him Jaskier's.</p>
<p>"This is Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher," says Jaskier with a hard edge of warning in his voice, but then he smirks as he turns to Geralt and points to Marx in an exaggeratedly formal gesture of introduction. "Geralt, allow me to present Valdo Marx, the six-time loser of the annual Oxenfurt Bardic Competition in a row."</p>
<p>"Oh, darling, don't be so hard on yourself, you've just had your third loss in a row this winter, you can still catch up with me."</p>
<p>Jaskier glares, but a corner of his lips twitches into an unbidden smile.</p>
<p>"What have these good people done to deserve your presence, then?" he asks, tipping his head to the side, hip cocked, shoulders no longer as tense as when Marx first walked in through the door.</p>
<p>"I had hoped to find them an appreciative audience, though from the size of your purse I can tell their taste in music must leave a lot to be desired," Valdo Marx says with a smirk, his eyes trailing down the line of Jaskier's body in a warm way that straightens Geralt's spine and makes him grip the ale tankard hard enough to turn his fingernails white.</p>
<p>"Well then," says Jaskier. "I suppose you’re lucky I’m leaving."</p>
<p>“Always a blessing,” sighs Marx theatrically. “Let me get you a drink for the road to celebrate your departure.” His eyes turn to Geralt with an appreciative sweep. “And may I buy a drink for your menacing muse as well?”</p>
<p>Geralt gives him the flattest look he can muster from his repertoire.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Shame, shame, would have been nice to hear some voice other than your squawking, dear Jaskier. Shall we?”</p>
<p>Jaskier turns to Geralt, looking caught for a moment, blue eyes seeking yellow, and Geralt feels caught right along with him, because he doesn’t know what to do here. Something sour and ugly pulls inside Geralt, makes him want to tug Jaskier away, bundle him up onto Roach and leave right this minute, leave Valdo Marx and his ambiguous offers behind. But what right does Geralt have to do that? What claim does he have on Jaskier? And even if he had <em>that</em> claim, the one he wants so badly that it makes his chest tight some mornings when he hears the soft puff of Jaskier’s breath so close he can imagine him sleeping tucked into his side -- even if he had this claim, Jaskier is his own man. If he wants to have drinks with his proclaimed mortal enemy, because apparently this is something they do, then it’s not Geralt’s place to stop him.</p>
<p>On a reflex, he sweeps his eyes over Marx in search for weapons, but he finds none, and he’s seen Jaskier start a bar fight and then handle himself in it -- he’ll be fine.</p>
<p>So he looks back to Jaskier and lifts one shoulder in an awkward shrug. Jaskier sighs, turns to Marx, an exasperated look settling on his face.</p>
<p>“Ugh, fine, but just one,” he says.</p>
<p>“Jaskier, travelling with a Witcher has made you soft!” laughs Marx, slapping his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and very much <em>not</em> letting go. “How on earth did you manage that?”</p>
<p>“Oh, drink from a piss pot, Valdo,” says Jaskier pleasantly, although he’s walking alongside him to the bar. “Should help for your high notes too -- tell me, do they still sound like lords farting from too much ripe cheese?”</p>
<p>Geralt can’t help but snort into his ale as he watches them go, even with the sour thing still bubbling in his stomach, spreading out into his chest. He doesn’t care for Valdo Marx, and from Jaskier’s various seething mentions and ramblings, he expected an entirely different interaction. The insults were more or less what he thought would happen. The drinks… not so much.</p>
<p>He stays at his table and works slowly through the rest of his ale, keeping an eye on Jaskier and Valdo Marx, just to make sure no throats are ripped out. It doesn’t seem likely to happen -- they’ve settled into their seats and carry on trading biting remarks and kicks at each other’s egos, but their bodies aren’t bunched up for battle. In fact, Geralt isn’t sure what to make of the strange mixture of ease and tension between them that draws them together only to push them apart. He watches Jaskier’s lips twist in a smirk before he leans forward to deliver a comeback that makes Valdo Marx rear back, bejewelled hands flying in outrage. They knock their drinks in a toast a touch too hard and carry on talking and flinging insults at each other.</p>
<p>Geralt finishes the last of his ale and no longer has an excuse to sit and watch, nor does he feel he wants to. In fact, while he’s been ready to leave the town earlier today, now he finds himself itching for it.</p>
<p>Across the room, Valdo Marx smirks and says something about some noble that makes Jaskier laugh again, less of a cackle and more of a sharp glee.</p>
<p>The ugly thing in Geralt’s chest sours further and thickens, like milk that’s gone bad. He gets up from his table with a grunt and decides to go to the leatherworker and ask about his armour -- he’ll get one step closer to leaving, and Jaskier will have time to… do whatever the fuck it is he’s doing with his nemesis.</p>
<p>The bustle of the streets outside scrapes his nerves more raw than usual, but he tries not to rush. Give Jaskier time. His world doesn’t need to revolve solely around Geralt, after all. When he gets to the shop, the leatherworker greets him with a smile -- he’s a regular among the inn’s dinner crowd and has listened to Jaskier extol the deeds of the White Wolf several times.</p>
<p>“Ah, you’re just in time, master witcher,” he says and ducks to retrieve the breastplate of Geralt’s armour. “I’ve just finished it not half an hour ago.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums as he inspects the mend -- it’s perfect and should last as long as a brand new piece.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he says and pays a few extra coins, definitely because of the quality of the repair and not at all because the leatherworker always enthusiastically applauds Jaskier’s performances.</p>
<p>Geralt isn’t exactly one for small talk, so he has no way to keep stalling at the leatherworker’s once the business is concluded. He also isn’t one for aimless walks down city streets, so he decides to go and take a look at daggers that a nearby store has on offer.</p>
<p>The selection is satisfying enough to keep him there for a while before he finally makes his choice -- it helps that he’s frustratingly uncertain when it comes to the aesthetic aspect. Normally, he wouldn’t give a fuck about how a dagger looks, he would just select the most deadly and efficient option. But when he’s faced with three daggers that would do equally well and which would sit equally solidly in the hand of someone accustomed to making quick and precise movements, he’s not sure which one a fussy bard would prefer. Jaskier may thrive in the dust and hardship of the road, but he still loves his silks and his trinkets and his colours.</p>
<p>Geralt eventually opts for a design that’s fairly simple but has vibrant bands of dark lapis lazuli framing the hilt -- not quite the shade of Jaskier’s eyes, but as close as a piece of rock could hope to get.</p>
<p>The sun is only just rolling down towards the horizon, so he decides to stop by the stables and look in on Roach. She’s happy to see him and noses at his pockets because Jaskier keeps sneaking her sugar lumps, and as a result Geralt now has a spoiled horse on his hands.</p>
<p>“We’re leaving at sunrise,” he tells her, and she huffs at him, not having the courtesy to pretend she’s the one he’s reassuring. “Get a good night’s sleep, girl.”</p>
<p>She makes a soft sound and bumps his chest with her nose; it knocks just enough warmth into it to dissipate some of the sour weight.</p>
<p>It’s just that he doesn’t understand, and the feeling pulls like a tangle in his hair. He thought Valdo Marx was Jaskier’s bitter enemy from all that Jaskier has ranted over the years. And yet there was a twitch to Jaskier’s lips that became a smirk and then a smile. And then they went to have drinks together.</p>
<p>Geralt doesn’t like confusing things. Confusion gets Witchers killed.</p>
<p>When he steps into the inn, he hopes to find Valdo Marx and Jaskier having parted company. But nothing ever goes the way Geralt thinks it will, so he’s unpleasantly surprised to find them still seated at the bar. Very much <em>not</em> biting each other’s heads off.</p>
<p>In fact, they look thick as thieves, laughing and jostling over a piece of paper, insults still flying. Jaskier’s laughter rings bright like silver and Marx looks at him in a way that shoots unease through Geralt’s nerves; if he tried to catch his own scent, he’s fairly sure it would be bitter and tinged with salt. The tip of Marx’s shoe taps against Jaskier’s foot; Jaskier doesn’t move away, busy with the piece of paper between them.</p>
<p>Geralt swallows back something hard that tries to claw up his throat and makes his way over to them.</p>
<p>“I’m done,” he grunts, lifting his mended breastplate in illustration. The dagger stays tucked away in his pack.</p>
<p>“Geralt!” Jaskier beams at him in greeting; he doesn’t smell drunk, but he looks nowhere near ready to sleep. He also doesn’t appear to be leaving the bar.</p>
<p>“I’m going to our room,” elaborates Geralt, in case he wasn’t clear enough before.</p>
<p>“Oh-- don’t wait up,” says Jaskier, his hand flying in a flippant gesture. “Valdo and I are going to, er, <em>compose</em>.”</p>
<p>The unease scorches through his nerves until his skin stings with alarm, pulls his spine straight again, makes his eyes flick between them. Is Jaskier-- Did he just--</p>
<p>Valdo Marx waggles his fingers at him in a goodbye gesture, and Geralt wants to break every single one of them, but instead he grits his teeth and storms off, because his thoughts are racing and tripping over each other in his head and he needs some damn peace and quiet to sort them out.</p>
<p>Clearly, his self-preservation instincts are much poorer than he always thought, because when he reaches the stairs he pauses and looks back over his shoulder. He watches as Valdo Marx puts his hand on the back of Jaskier’s head, ruffles his hair. Jaskier squirms, his body at ease, his eyes shining with mischief (the sort of mischief that usually leads to another spouse or parent baying for his balls), and something cold and heavy sinks in the pit of Geralt’s stomach and just keeps sinking, a never-ending drop.</p>
<p>Oh.</p>
<p>He feels heavy when he walks up the stairs, weighed-down and cold, and he sits on his bed when he reaches their room. The confusion has untangled, but it actually hurts worse. Now it hurts because it makes sense.</p>
<p>Geralt thinks about how he’s heard Jaskier talk about Valdo Marx over the years -- always seething but with such passion, and he’s probably mentioned his name more frequently than anybody else’s. He thinks back to how Jaskier used to annoy <em>him</em> at the beginning, make his blood simmer, and how he still sometimes makes his skin feel too tight, but for an entirely different reason now. He thinks about how now he loves--</p>
<p>Fuck.</p>
<p>It’s still a little bit not what Geralt would have thought Jaskier’s choice of lover -- companion -- would be. Or perhaps it’s just, selfishly, not what <em>he</em> would be like as Jaskier’s lover. He teases Jaskier, but doesn’t offend him, not in any real way, the words always met with laugher or mock outrage and a tease returned. He would so much like to hold Jaskier, gather him into his arms and keep him close instead of nudging and jabbing him. The smile he puts on Jaskier’s face is brighter than the jagged thing caused by Valdo Marx, but what does Geralt know?</p>
<p>The truth is, Jaskier would be better off like that -- he deserves to tour royal courts and noble households where he’ll be adored and applauded. Not to trip after Geralt as he tries to follow him into a drowners’ nest in the dark and sleep rough on the road when they’re out of coin. And he deserves to have an eloquent companion who speaks the language of music and will compose by his side instead of a grunting witcher who smells like onion and puts him in danger.</p>
<p>Geralt may still tease Jaskier about his music and pretend to talk shit about it to get a rise out of him, but he always enjoys it (fine, maybe he’s a bit sick of <em>Toss a Coin</em>, but that’s only because it’s been following them both for years now). And he always tries his best whenever Jaskier asks for his opinion.</p>
<p>But that’s not enough.</p>
<p>Geralt starts packing his belongings before he realises what he’s doing. Once he does realise, he keeps packing, only now there’s a stifling ache in his lungs (but mostly on the left side).</p>
<p>Jaskier should stay behind, that much is clear. He’ll be safer, better off. And maybe he’ll have a chance of finding the sort of lover he needs. Even if that’s Valdo fucking Marx.</p>
<p>But Geralt knows he can’t just leave him without a word. It would be easier -- except it wouldn’t, not really, because Jaskier would either be hurt or would fly after him to try and catch up.</p>
<p>He finishes packing. When he finds the dagger with the bands of lapis lazuli, he slams it down on the nightstand beside Jaskier’s bed, and then lays his hand on it, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.</p>
<p>And then he sits on his bed and waits.</p>
<p>He tries to mediate, tries to make his mind drift away so it doesn’t catch sounds of... anything that might be happening in another room. He doesn’t succeed fully, but enough to make the time pass faster, and he swallows, stirring to full consciousness when the door opens and Jaskier steps into the room, lute in hand.</p>
<p>“Oh,” he says, surprised to find Geralt dressed for the road and sitting on the bed. “Ah, sorry about… this. I said not to wait up! Er… are you angry?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Ah. I just thought, with that face…” Jaskier makes a vague gesture with his hand; in the light of the single candle in the room, his eyes glitter like stars. “And the clothes…”</p>
<p>“I’m leaving,” grunts Geralt as he stands up, picks up his pack.</p>
<p>“Oh! Change of plans? Well, no problem, just let me--“</p>
<p>“You should stay.”</p>
<p>Jaskier pauses halfway to his pack, looking lost.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I’m leaving. But you should stay.”</p>
<p>Jaskier stares, frowns.</p>
<p>“Did I--“ he pauses, presses his lips into a thin line. “What did I do wrong?” he asks, and the flash of deep hurt on his face feels like a stab wound; Geralt doesn’t allow himself to look away.</p>
<p>“Nothing.” Geralt wants to reach out, to brush the hurt away, but he’s the one who put it there. “I… I don’t want to be in your way,” he explains as best as he can, the words tangling and bunching up on the way into his mouth.</p>
<p>The hurt ripples away into confusion; it’s not much better.</p>
<p>“What? Geralt, what are you talking about?”</p>
<p>Geralt swallows, tries to sort the words out, tries to find them in the first place.</p>
<p>“You should stay here,” he tries again. “With Valdo Marx. You two-- I understand if--“ he grunts. “I don’t want to stop you from… <em>being</em> with… him.”</p>
<p>“<em>Being</em> with him?” asks Jaskier faintly, eyes impossibly wide, and Geralt finds himself at the end of a fuse.</p>
<p>“Dammit, Jaskier, I just-- If you care for him, then you should stay here with him!”</p>
<p>Jaskier gapes.</p>
<p>“You think-- <em>me and Valdo</em>?” he asks, eyes bulging. “What gave you <em>that</em> idea?!”</p>
<p>“The way you two-- And you said not to wait up because you two were going to…” Geralt fishes for words, grips the strap of the pack tighter in his fist until the leather creaks. “<em>Compose</em>,” he finally forces out.</p>
<p>“And… we did,” Jaskier says with the slowness of confronting the unbelievable. “Compose. It’s-- we-- sometimes when we meet we try to bludgeon each other to death, and sometimes we have a few drinks, insult each other, and compose the worst things we can think of -- which we were doing just now, by the way, and oh, Geralt, that’s a <em>magnificent</em> piece of shit, I shall have to perform it at some court where I can afford to burn a bridge, because this is too magnificently terrible--“</p>
<p>“You composed,” grunts Geralt, because he can’t wait any longer, and even if he did try to, Jaskier can keep talking forever. “Music.”</p>
<p>“Well, yes!” exclaims Jaskier, arms spread wide. “I mean, if you can call it that, it’s so terrible. I was actually going to play a piece for you -- not the whole thing, I don’t hate you, so…”</p>
<p>And now that Geralt looks, now that the terrible miasma in his chest is beginning to lift, he can see Jaskier’s fingers stained with ink, no marks on his neck, no scent of alcohol or man on his skin, no scent other than wildflowers and a whiff of oil from yesterday’s bath.</p>
<p>“Oh,” he says.</p>
<p>And then Jaskier looks at him, a strange light in his eyes that causes the ground to shift beneath Geralt’s feet.</p>
<p>“So you thought…”</p>
<p>“Jaskier.”</p>
<p>“You said you were going to leave because you didn’t want to <em>be in my way</em>…”</p>
<p>“Jaskier,” Geralt tries not to plead and fails.</p>
<p>Jaskier steps closer. “Because you thought I <em>loved</em> Valdo…”</p>
<p>Geralt presses his lips together until they hurt, flashes his eyes sideways, but they treacherously keep seeking Jaskier back out, like a flower turning towards the sun. When he finally gives in, Jaskier is looking at him with a tenderness that traps Geralt’s breath in his chest.</p>
<p>“Oh, Geralt, you wonderful, terrible wolf -- I <em>hate</em> Valdo, and what I love about him is to hate him. And that’s not what love is to me. Not at all. Love is teasing and banter, yes, but so much more, my dear. To me love is a horse that walks slow enough so I can keep up. Sharing food and time and a fire under the stars. Dressing a wound and pulling out a splinter. Buying better boots for the road. Love is chamomile,” he says with a brief glint in his eyes as Geralt’s face goes much too warm, “and choosing to belong. Don’t you see, my dear?” He steps forward, that light growing brighter in his eyes, his courage fragrant in the air, and the ground trembles and crumbles until Geralt is left perched on the precipice. “I love <em>you</em>.”</p>
<p>When Geralt begins to fall, it’s not because he was pushed, but because he leaps. He crashes on Jaskier’s lips, muffling the soft sound he makes, and then Jaskier’s hands are in his hair, then on his back, pulling him closer as he opens his mouth with a sigh. Jaskier tastes sweet, like mead and sunlight, and Geralt finally, finally <em>belongs</em>.</p>
<p><em>Yours</em>, he presses with his fingertips into Jaskier’s back, licks into the heat of Jaskier’s mouth. <em>Yours, yours, yours</em>.</p>
<p><em>Mine</em>.</p>
<p>“I thought…” slurs Jaskier against Geralt’s mouth, barely catching a breath. “I-- oh, Melitele, do that again… I thought you <em>knew</em>.”</p>
<p>So Geralt does it again, because it requires his mouth firmly on Jaskier’s, and that means Jaskier won’t keep talking about the whole thing and Geralt won’t have to go mad thinking he could have had this so much earlier. Instead, he kisses Jaskier like a parched man who has stumbled upon an oasis in the middle of a desert and made his home there.</p>
<p>Jaskier moans, presses closer, his body hot through silks and cotton, and Geralt pulls him closer still, because he has him at last, and because everything inside him burns as he maddeningly cannot get enough. When Jaskier’s fingers find where Geralt’s shirt is tucked into his trousers, he can’t stop the desperate groan that ripples through his throat.</p>
<p>“Oh, darling,” hums Jaskier, a soft tremor in his voice that thrums through Geralt’s blood. “I think… I need you to take me to bed.”</p>
<p>And Geralt does.</p>
<p>He lays Jaskier out on the bed, mouthing and kissing the smooth, soft skin he finds as Jaskier’s clothes fall away, burrows in the scent of him, shudders with heat when Jaskier’s hands glide over his bare skin, sparking fire in their wake. When Jaskier, cheeks flushed and feverish, bites down on a grin and presses a vial of chamomile oil into his hand, Geralt knows he’ll never be able to smell it again without his face growing hot.</p>
<p>He makes sure to take his time, despite Jaskier’s impatient squirming as Geralt opens him up, his moans and babbled reassurances finally goading Geralt into sinking into him. He groans his pleasure, his skin feeling too tight as he moves, with Jaskier’s legs wrapped around his waist and head tipped back against the pillows as he keens whenever Geralt rolls his hips and thrusts into him in that way Jaskier seems to like best. Geralt has never played a bard before, and Jaskier laughs when Geralt tells him that, free and bright and breathless, his nails sharp on Geralt’s back but his lips soft and warm and sweet.</p>
<p>There’s no chance of making it last, of drawing it out into something languid, not with both of them urgent and heady with months and years of need, their bodies slick with sweat, pleasure crackling and making the world go dark for just a moment when Jaskier arches under him, clenches hot and tight around him when he comes spilling between them, making Geralt follow right after.</p>
<p>But there will be time for all that -- the next time, and the time after that, thinks Geralt as he rolls onto his back, pulling Jaskier on top of him, not willing to let go yet. They trade kisses that slow down as their breathing does, and Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier, feeling his weight on top of him. He hasn’t had enough, he hasn’t had nearly enough, and he strokes down Jaskier’s back, over the swell of his arse, Jaskier’s sigh rich in his mouth, telling him he hasn’t had enough either.</p>
<p>But there will be time, thinks Geralt again as he cleans them up with the first piece of clothing his hand finds on the floor. There is now all the time they want, and Geralt allows himself to sink into the bed, heady and sated with the thought as Jaskier tucks closer into him, the room dark and enfolding them in quiet.</p>
<p>Jaskier presses soft, small kisses to Geralt’s shoulder, then his neck, nuzzles at his collarbone, tucks his head under Geralt’s chin. The gestures are tender and full of warmth, but Geralt knows his bard, his fluttering songbird, and recognises this as the fidgeting it is. He smoothes a hand down Jaskier’s back to settle him, pulls him closer, kisses the crown of his head. Jaskier hums, burrows into the crook of Geralt’s neck, and goes still for a bit.</p>
<p>“Just to be clear, my dear…” he murmurs after a while, his voice tinged with a smile. “You aren’t going to leave me behind in the morning because you got madly jealous, are you?”</p>
<p>It’s a joke, but Geralt can feel the hard shape of seriousness beneath the flimsy words, and he knows he’ll never forgive himself for putting even a shred of doubt in Jaskier’s head. For trying to shake him off so many times in the early days.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t jealous,” he rumbles, just to make him snort, and it works. Then he holds him closer again and kisses the soft fall of hair that is now rumpled and wild over his forehead. “I will never leave you, Jaskier. Not until you want me to.”</p>
<p>Jaskier’s thumb brushes quick and calloused over a patch of Geralt’s chest.</p>
<p>“Well then. You’ll be stuck with me forever, I hope you realise.” He’s still tentative, still treading lightly. Geralt’s chest hurts, because he will have to show him he has no reason to. But then the ache loosens, because he has all the time in the world to do it now.</p>
<p>“Good,” he says firmly. “I want to be,” he adds then, against the fear that destiny will hear him and pry Jaskier from his arms. But Jaskier deserves to hear it, deserves Geralt to muster up all the courage he has and then run destiny through with a sword if he has to.</p>
<p>“Oh…” says Jaskier, voice so full of warmth it makes Geralt’s chest tight in an altogether different way.</p>
<p>When Jaskier shifts and brackets Geralt’s head with his arms and leans down for a kiss, Geralt meets him halfway, opens his mouth wide, invites Jaskier to take what he wants, and takes all he’s given in return. They stay like this long enough for Geralt to lose track of time between slick kisses and hands moving in the dark, legs tangling, bodies pressed close and seeking.</p>
<p>The next time comes later, as sunrise spills over the rooftops outside their window, and in the fresh light of a new day they do make it last. Geralt rolls Jaskier onto his back again and fucks him smooth and languid, the sharp edge of urgency polished away and leaving only deep, curling want, impossible to sate. Geralt rolls his hips, hitches Jaskier’s leg higher round his waist, and Jaskier keens again; Geralt kisses his throat, feels the sound on his lips, and trembles with pleasure.</p>
<p>They don’t get to sleep until the sun is high in the sky.</p>
<hr/>
<p>It must be close to noon when Geralt stirs awake. He didn’t sleep long, but there’s something loose and glowing that stretches deep all the way into his bones and makes him feel rested more than he can remember being. He can feel the warmth of Jaskier’s body next to his even before he looks, and he lies for a moment, eyes on the ceiling.</p>
<p>He feels the warmth, finds the places where Jaskier’s naked skin is pressed against his, and the patches where rumpled sheets and covers get in the way. He breathes deep, pulls Jaskier’s wildflower scent into his lungs, feels a stirring in his gut when he catches a whiff of himself on Jaskier’s skin. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat, still steady but close to waking, and he turns to look.</p>
<p>Jaskier lies tucked into his side, the very way Geralt had thought about so many times, his warm breaths puffing against Geralt’s shoulder. He’s always beautiful, but in this moment, in noon’s bright light and tangled in the sheets that smell like sex and their sweat, with his fingers in the wolf medallion’s chain, Geralt is ready to think he’s the most beautiful he’s ever been. Because he’s Geralt’s. Only Geralt’s. And he’d opened his arms and took Geralt in and let him belong.</p>
<p>And Geralt gets to keep him.</p>
<p>(He still isn’t sure how to come to terms with that. But again -- he has a long, long time to learn.)</p>
<p>The innkeeper will probably charge them for another day, but Geralt couldn’t give less of a fuck. Time trickles by, slow, slow. Slower than Jaskier’s breathing as he gradually drifts awake.</p>
<p>Geralt’s lips twitch as he reaches for the bedside, where Jaskier’s lute is rested carefully, and picks it up, folding his arms into the thousand memories of Jaskier doing it; the strings strum under his fingers, a sound so gentle that he’s almost startled to be the one coaxing it out into the world.</p>
<p>Beside him, the sheets rustle and Jaskier makes a soft hum; he doesn’t say anything, clever or otherwise, but simply smiles in the sunlight pooling over him as he lays a hand over Geralt’s.</p>
<p>“Like this,” he says quietly, guiding Geralt’s fingers to press the strings here and simply rest against them there; he brushes a kiss over Geralt’s knuckles, and when he looks up his eyes are so bright that Geralt wants to swallow all the air in the world. Or hide under the covers.</p>
<p>He strums the lute again, Jaskier’s most prized possession, and Jaskier just watches him, blue-eyed and tousle-haired and half-covered by the sheets, and Geralt almost doesn’t go through with the idea.</p>
<p>“That’s very nice. I’ll make an artist of you yet. What’s got you so musical?”</p>
<p>Almost.</p>
<p>“Hmm,” says Geralt, putting on a thoughtful face. “I feel grateful.” He plucks at a string, glances at Jaskier from under his lashes, watches him melt. “So grateful that I think I should compose a ballad about it.”</p>
<p>“Geralt…”</p>
<p>Geralt bites back a horrible grin and strums the lute again.</p>
<p>“An ode to Valdo Marx, to thank him for this.”</p>
<p>And there it is, Jaskier choking on air and swallowing half the breath he’s trying to take, mouth wide in outrage as he squawks; Geralt is fairly sure that the lute in his hands is the only reason why Jaskier doesn’t lunge for his throat. He finally lets that grin show.</p>
<p>“You-- <em>you!</em> The-- you! Heathen! The betrayal!” Jaskier dramatically throws off the covers, but his attempts to storm off the bed are hindered when he has to clamber over Geralt’s form. “Well, Geralt, you have well and truly left me a broken man, I shall never forgive you for this—“</p>
<p>Jaskier rants and rambles, until Geralt puts the lute away and wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him back into the mussed sheets and covers; sparks of dust twirl in the air as Jaskier hits the bed, rumpled hair falling into his eyes, and Geralt rumbles a laugh.</p>
<p>“You absolute shit!” finishes Jaskier, and then he dissolves into laughter that feels brighter than the sun. “Oh, that was a good one, my darling, but make no mistake, my vengeance shall be dreadful. I’ve been known to hold a grudge.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums, puts on a serious face.</p>
<p>“How can I make amends?”</p>
<p>Jaskier’s eyes glint with mischief.</p>
<p>“I have a few ideas.”</p>
<p>With his head between Jaskier’s thighs and with Jaskier’s moans and keens ringing in the air, Geralt muses he’s better at playing the bard than the lute anyway.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The innkeeper does charge them for another day when they finally leave, in early afternoon hours, but Geralt doesn’t care, not with Jaskier trilling and happy, a new dagger at his side as he chatters at Roach and apologises to her for the delay.</p>
<p>The cobbles of the road give way to dirt as the city fades behind them. Jaskier’s brand new boots immediately take on a layer of dust, and Geralt hums his contentment as he walks by his side, Roach’s reins in his hand.</p>
<p>Summer really is Geralt’s favourite season.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I continue to be ruined by these beautiful idiots. I hope you enjoy the products of this ruin.</p>
<p>Also, feel free to interpret Jaskier's mention of sticking with Geralt 'forever' as a reference to Jaskier being non-human/long-living, since that's what he always is in my head because sjfjshdf.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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